"militia" poems
Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls
Army bands prepare for march
(their trench members filling packs with canister and cane)
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle
Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms
Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues
Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from their perch
an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare
It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
are a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:33 PM UTC
We’re all different
A fact that some will take with stride
And others will take out their black & white boxes
Trying to cram you into margins that you’ll never fit into
Labels
Just another way to categorize us as objects
Smashing our individuality with a hammer
Until we are all identical, with no more identity
Freedom
Something we are considered lucky to have
Where other countries struggle day by day
Fighting to stay themselves
Yet in our free country
I still find myself fighting for liberation,
Scratching at the cement surface
For endless years
Walking around, trying to be uniform
It’s meant to make us comfortable, but makes me die inside
We all walk in straight, marching band lines like militia members
And walk on forever without a second thought
Individuality
A gift given to us all that we must cherish, hold onto
Accept everyone around you for their good and bad habits
Accept people for who they are, whether you like them or not
One day, I will break free
Run in the opposite direction
With my arms spread out wide
Feeling like Rosa Parks when she claimed her seat
One day I will not be scared of my freedom
One day I will not be scared of trying to explain to people who I am
I will never be scared of friends
I will never be scared of strangers
I will never be scared of family
Boys, girls, adults, parents, siblings
One day I won’t be scared of myself anymore
Scared of making the wrong decisions
And letting everyone around me down
The weights of expectations always make me hide in the shadows
To where I feel I’ll never be good enough
But today, I smile at all my obstacles
With my mind set on “Dare To Be Dangerous”
Because exploring everything around me
Has been a roller coaster of joviality that I’ve always needed
I’ve made new friends this year
Gotten very close to others
But I learned an important lesson
I love who I am
And I will come to accept the future me
But for now I’m different
And that’s all I ever wanted to be
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
Two fine films: The Lost City and Blood Diamond.
I joined Blood Diamond during a village massacre
and said to my wife A gun in every home.
Those devils would think twice
before razing the village and seizing the boys.
A well-regulated militia.
The local militia the most interesting moment
in a strong film with motive (economic, emotional), action (chases,
fights) and a **** sexless love story.
Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose: protect the
community, the young
from the janjaweed. The crop from the ****
Limited scope and defensive posture
but armed and coordinated, cooperative, the men (and the women)
side by side.
Warriors at the gate, you will not run, you will not bargain.
Just violence = limited scope, defensive posture.
Great music. Cuba, Africa.
The Lost City, when the communists tell the club owner under threat
of violence
No saxophones in the band. The saxophone!
Invented by a Belgian--Look what the Belgians are doing in the
Congo!
When the state's violence is turned against the citizenry
for non-violent acts.
This quiet neighborhood, July,
undergirded by violence, force. That's a given--
any farmer, custodian, EMT will tell you that.
Without just violence
Gandhi's scope, and King's, might be vanishingly limited,
negligible (but not non-existent)?
Regarding King
the matter is simple -- he was non-violent but dependent upon
federal force to counter the South's violence.
No doubt without the larger force, the non-violent would be
overwhelmed by southern violence.
Here, non-violence was a tactic, not an ethic.
Gandhi, however, had no violent partner to protect him from the
British. Or did he?
1. There was the potential violence of the population, which Gandhi
restrained but could release which the British feared, and
2. It was the restrained (limited scope) violence of the British that
allowed Gandhi to exist rather than be extinguished--this restraint
was a (British) cultural imperative (limited scope) as well as
emanating from Britain's view of India as a protectorate and
valued citizen of the United Kingdom (defensive posture).
What about violence or threat of violence to compel compliance with
community
as in mortgage foreclosure, driving without license, drug possession.
Perhaps it is necessary violence to maintain orderly commerce, the
common space, and preempt bad behaviors associated with
otherwise neutral, private acts.
The defensive posture is the common good; the limited scope is
forgoing deadly force.
But the citizen, too, must maintain a disciplined, armed non-violence,
in case the state (the janjaweed) engages in an unjust, autoimmune
violence.
Hence, a gun in every home.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
There is a Mouse in this House.
Insatiable,
He keeps me up at night,
thin fine claws on metal stove tops,
whispering to the birds what a fool he's made of me,
because I couldn't make the fibers of my home work with me.
There is a Mouse in this House,
Immortal,
I've fished him drowned out of drains,
fed him bleach on silver trays,
listened to him choke in air vents,
his chestnut jacket perpetually in the corners of my eye,
leaving reminders in my cereal,
this rodent he refuses to die.
There is a Mouse in this House,
Intangible,
he is not slipping through my fingers he's dancing on them,
quick petite feet tapping on my counters,
fleet and fast like smoke,
I've seen him seep through a clenched fist and still escape with wedding bands,
There is a Mouse in this House.
Impish,
he waits 'till I'm alone to play his music,
the crack and chew,
too early with the morning dew,
he will not play his song for you, it'd be too easy to be seen.
There is a Mouse in this House,
primeval,
he's been waiting,
mapped the walls and painted my flaws,
tactician skilled and iron willed,
this beast knows war far more than my militia mind was ready for,
plotting out insurgencies for restless and anxieties,
There is a Mouse in this House,
emaciated,
what's his is his,
what's mine is his,
there is no sacred to things with tails.
clearing out my pantry,
his jaws now tasting for my sanity,
finished with the:
Rye,
White,
and Sourdough,
he's fixed his tongue on sweat breads,
scuttling with unnatural flow,
There is a Mouse in this House.
Charming,
too handsome a creature to ever be singed,
he peddles on the burners simply too strut,
scampering through flames to test his luck,
There is a Mouse in this House,
Insomniac,
from now until each evening hour,
his paws touch turns time sour.
Ivory teeth clanging out a new ink-printed deed,
he owns the tenant and never even had to rent it,
There is a Mouse in this House,
arrogant,
too self-assured and clever,
cunning, devilish a creature he may be,
but he has yet to get a load of me,
holed away within his den,
his first mistake was not letting me win,
setting aria's on fly's wings to declare his victory,
this furry phantasm is all too aware of what he did to me.
There is a Mouse in This House,
sleeper,
I'm plotting my comeback,
sure-footed,
slow breathes,
and savage hands,
I'm ready,
silent and steady;
this beautiful monstrous mouse had best prepare for battle.
There is a Mouse in this House.
But it's my House.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
How does the world expect you not to **** yourself?
I do not understand why we are put on this earth.
We are born and we already have expectations put into us, then we are put into school by the age of four.
Forced to stand in line like some militia.
We get 30 minutes of free time then are summoned by a whistle and teachers go down checking to make sure we are all aligned.
Tell me how that sounds moral!
We are in school for another 14 years after that, and it just gets harder.
Soon, teachers start choosing favorites and start telling you that you're not good enough, smart enough, or quick enough. You try to do a sport you love only to be told "somebody else was better."
Your friends start to leave you to go join a different group of friends and all you get is a subtle wave and half smile as you walk down the hallway.
You graduate high school and move onto college.
Another four years of school.
Maybe nursing, maybe education, maybe psychology.
Whatever it is it's preparing you for a job that you have to have the rest of your life.
You don't get to have fun everyday.
You have to work, and though they say "the right job is fun." The right job is stressful. The right job is hard. The right job is still a daily struggle. The right job is still a constant battle!
Why were we put on this earth only to continue working, and making our life into one big unhappy nightmare?
Yet, when someone say they want to **** themselves, everyone replies, "oh but the world is so wonderful."
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 12:24 PM UTC
Arrow upon arrow the stricken heart endured,
Strife and doom its woeful dream ensured.
Vile phantoms of creed with deception en route
Intended to thwart, unveil their wicked fruit.
Satan had withered our spirit's joy and flame,
And gathered an earthly militia; among those to blame.
A maze he encrypted, the heir's light yet unseen,
All prospects stolen, great efforts wiped clean.
Creative their mind twilight art they presented,
The Sphere's evil hosts all reflected and resented.
Lost was all hearing, faith and sight,
Misplaced sense of wonder and good sense in flight.
"I worship nothing!" His heir once preferred,
Such was the spirit in high degrees deterred.
"Paragons of justice, will I ever get to see
The day my misfortunes cease to be?
They shadow, entrap and starve my soul
Of love and joy and all control!
So tired I am, and tired I shall stay
If purpose here is merely to convey
No purpose at all, except for one:
To enslave the soul, casting punishment for fun.
My simple wish, then, is simply to impart
An end to this misery and to my sanctioned heart."
His despairing heir put in motion so
An idea most frightening, its telling shall forego...
Immerse in their demise, allow for stricken grief,
Then foresee the King's love and His graciousness in fleet.
He gathered around, with love He replaced
Satan and his minions conspiring in space;
The King broke off the heir's chains with great might,
He enlightened our spirit, who had not known the light.
The heir's desperate cries reached The King's vibrations,
He released the heir and nullified all limitations.
Profound divine wisdom our heir now espies;
Seeing The King's glory and the through destroyer's lies.
Great wisdom and revelation now fill this mended heart,
But it's a tale best left for another form of art...
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 11:35 PM UTC
I'm going to go through with it
This just has to be done
It's all going to stop
Chasing our tail around
For The ****** Dollar
It's all the same in the end
Passionate and proud
At the burst of a cloud
Rain falls in whispers
All today and into the night
When the wild are on the verge
Of some kind of taming
Who cares who you are blaming
How much does it matter that some are unaccountable
Not that you can get away with ****** and wars
When it's time to take your artwork
And put it in a frame
The picture is yours
It's the painter who takes the claim
When it's time to die
What's in it for the stars
Maybe a big wake and
Miles of lined up long electric cars
The mountain's shadow
Keeps the place cool in the summer
Not 'till the volcano spews it's guts
Will you lay down and burn
Or vaporize just in time
It's over with the death of the Star
'What is and was will be bleaker and bleaker
A place you'd turn your head away from
When we have this chance to change into living without borders
What does that mean a shot of the The New World Order
An evocation of imaginations of and for the somewhat rich and the richer
A full and complete Police State, militia walk the street, Their bidding done
No way to travel but by foot
And the odd old bicycle
Horse and mules being bred
To save the soles on your leather boots
All the waters contaminated all the crops hollow not fit for an animal
We go this way or we go that
Who will drag us down or
Who will bring us up
Vibrational influences could save us all
We can't keep trying to tell ourselves that the Government
Has our best interests at heart because they don't
If there is war among the classes it's a way to distract us
But it needs to be done and I'm bringing my 'A' game
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
My heart has been invaded.
Alarms sound through the open hallways
And echoing spiral stairwells.
I hear the tread of a thousand-man army
Trudging through liquid and flesh
To capture my precious Love,
The Love that has been locked away in a tower
Safe from the outside world.
Call 911 -
This is a real emergency.
Fear creeps up my spine
As the shadow looms in the distance
And my days are numbered.
The army closes in with a fatal lullaby,
But to my surprise
The figure emerging from the mist
Is no heartbreak militia,
But instead
A girl.
Just about my height
Face to face.
Flower petal lips and hummingbird heartbeat.
Deep brown eyes glance through feather-lashes
And I am smitten.
If my invader is here to kidnap Love from her tower,
Love would go willingly.
A dream-come-true abduction.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
Purposes as incomprehensible and wonderful as these purposes
Either you had no purpose or the purpose is beyond the end
The purpose of sitting is not to be satisfied or satiated
Because the timepiece not only serves a purpose, it is adapted to that
purpose
Except it was a secret purpose
The world is a mental activity, a dream of souls, without foundation,
purpose, weight or shape
People in collective idleness are even more repellent than when purpose
motivates them
God, glass, my townspeople! For what purpose?
His purpose and mine is to catch photons and store them in our bones
Lately, as have you, I have thought about our war and its purpose
To have a season for every purpose, Ecclesiastes was right about that
Names of plants, languages of mammals, purposes of insects, placement
of rocks
My friend who is counselor to kings and presidents never lacks purpose
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Not to say there is no purpose necessarily, I just don’t immediately get it
Stately purposes, valor in battle, glorious annals of army and fleet, death
for the right cause
Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose, protect the
young from the janjaweed, the crop from the ****
The knight, the penitent misses last assessment of life’s purpose,
babbling for God to appear
I mean your entire purpose should be living, you must take living
seriously
Sleep with a purpose
Or lose all purpose beyond ****** child *** and food hoarding
Counting is associated with primitive forms of writing, that is the
purpose of poetry
The purpose of school is to introduce us to the world’s innumerable
wonders
Their corners sharp, their lines exact, as if their purpose was to show
the plane geometry of snow
That’s when everything becomes clear, purpose v. purposelessness
matters less
Lonely physics, national purpose
This then is the purpose of purposelessness (and of eating less)!
We will live with the question What was our purpose?
If we are not at home in the world, contributing purpose, we lose our
desire to stay here—and we die
The men who left the machine have started their own business, a new
endeavor by which they will keep warm and purposeful
You go the way of an unknown soldier, unable to assess the purpose of
the battle
Let Greece then know my purpose I retain, nor vex with new treaties my
peace in vain
And shake the purpose of my soul no more
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 5:43 AM UTC
Crows of brooklyn
payphone goddess
Shakespeare:
old skinny
repeating thin silver words
beneath a sea shell
stolen by a 7 year old girl
in a red rag dress
from the burning contemporary
bookstore
tossing sweat thru
irrelevant back spine tunnel streets
featherless skulls
spitting sour chinese gin
from chimney blow hole
of their decaying dead thieving Fox
revolting death
to mother blessing decay
red blue green white
Fox yellow brown fur
swirling entwined like
melting crayons
on a stone militia crafted bench
researched developed by young Hispanic America Freedom wanderers
too hot
too cold to undress and ****
swirling together like cigar french ashes with
tongue hued wine
feverish coffee
thick as the bulging pregnant belly mother
giving
taking birth to a child
tossed carelessly into the Great Lakes
sipping on bad spoiled milk
digesting salt
hard boiled swan eggs
eating purity
chewing skunk
coughing industrial chemical gasoline
*********** AIDS NYC bright non-existent lights
non-existent Allah
howling North Korea Communist war hymns
sing great religious protest
gunky toe nail'd feet
waltzing in the stomach of medieval
ballrooms chandelier not casted by
infinite diamonds
but by Jewish slaves
Islamic skins
Christian leather
Catholic molested brains children bones
deceased Langston Hughes
hung by Hughes spine and pupil
the size of texas
mass of the ****** female lips and knees
wearing color blind dress
shoes unfound
skin feet walking on rain drizzling beach
washed up skeleton sting ray
the skin unwrapped
like a christmas gift
Santa is starvation
licking the shoe polished long toes
of Death
riding the Downtown artificial lights
artificial scientist crafted classical
elevator time consuming Death songs
Jesus,
waking up,
to his body dry,
like that of Winter's rose and lips.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
I hit a Jack Rabbit going sixty or seventy five,
I turned off the radio,
I was on the road for 18 hours already,
thats when shadows come alive,
I never hit anything before,
never killed anything that big.
When I was 14, I lived in Kansas, Kansas city granted,
but Kansas all the same.
We would go to my friends farm,
he owned enough guns for a small militia,
mostly shotguns.
There were 3 of us, with three scatter killing booms.
We would rake the fields to flush anything out,
crickets,
grasshoppers,
we hoped for ducks or quail
(I only pretended too, I wasn't sure then if my ***** really dropped)
and we would shoot,
Sometimes for the noise,
other times for the show.
I never killed anything.
On the way back home I saw a little chickadee perched high in a tree,
I shot,
and he fell.
"Nice one man!"
I ran over, hiding my tears, and buried him.
I got out of there as soon as I could, Kansas that is,
I was stuck at the farm.
Eight years later and I'm still not sure about my *****
This time I didn't bury him.
I like to think it was male,
for some reason that lessens the pain.
I don't know if I crushed the life out of him quickly,
I imagine it was slow,
toturing myself with every detail as my retribution.
Made a nice thump though.
I could feel his delicate body even through the tire the shocks and the rest of the parts between me and his ****** corpse.
Softer than a speed bump.
Why did Dorothy ever go home.
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 11:30 PM UTC
Amendment I. Congress shall make
no law respecting the organization
of criminal activity, or prohibiting
the free exercise thereof;
or abridging the freedom to lie,
or to print any spurious gossip;
or the right of the people angrily
to riot & fight in the street opposed
by heavily armed State Militia
& to overthrow the government
in a violent revolution;
From hence, drug cartels & gangs
are to be thought of as serial killers,
each guilty of the crimes of all;
as to the corporations' death toll,
every employee is guilty &
anyone who profits from it;
priests, rabbis, cops go on the list w/
Jerry Sandusky & Larry Nassar;
female HS teachers & mass shooters
were made for each other but chilvery
only exists in the movies & on TV;
the Confederacy was more forward
thinking than the white trash trying
to claim its legacy; Greece &
Rome had a thriving slave class;
we have no idea, but Jim Crow was
the polar opposite of the liberal
Reconstruction that became
contemporary southern US
culture w/ [Jimcrowists lurking
& working quietly in plain sight];
u can here or u can be there, but
u can't be in both places at once
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC
For all the brave lads who want to keep us free and pure. Whether we like it or not.
We are the Redneck Militia,
marching here in stride,
white is the only color
in which we'll ever take pride.
If you don't like the color white,
we might gut you like a fish
and fry up your private organs
and eat them from a dish;
or maybe stamp out your brains on the street
and leave you there for dead
or hold you down on the pavement
and slowly run over your head.
For we are the Redneck Militia,
we're as wasted as can be,
if you still don't love the color white
we'll cut off your ***** for free.
And if you still aren't with us
we'll hang you high from a tree,
but if you don't like swinging
then a scalping it will be.
So get off your *** and march with us,
march til we've conquered this land,
if you don't like the blood and the bullets
you can always play in our band.
Just be sure to bang the drum loudly,
keep up with us stride for stride,
for we are the Redneck Militia
and white is the color of pride.
~mce
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
The paint is chipping, the Christmas tree shutters hanging
Green on gray, brick stoop and twin column mouth
Opens to creaking stairs that made sneaking out commando work
My room made your favorite shade is gone, death to ugly orange
I used to think of it as my laboratory, safe haven for exploration
And abstract cultivation, I bled my innocence into the floorboards
There are still fist-sized holes along the stud that I detected
Remnants of the games I played and the four that I connected
The basement is still damp and dreary, the wooden cage for laundry suspended
At the bottom of a chute that you told me was the tomb of a curious girl
My weight bench, secondhand and mixed pounds with kilograms
Living in sin, vowed never to be defenseless training endless
The attic lends its hospitable hand to trapped bird and cobweb gems
Quarter-circle window kept by chain hungrily swallows smoke
Shelves packed so tight with yellowing knowledge and petrified wood
That if spiteful spark made love to
Musty air and
********** embers, I would never make it out
Déjà vu as backyard grass soothes badtripbitch with tingling tips
Of leathery flesh, ready to be buried and wormed in its bedbox
Overwhelmed like militia in failing keep against advancing hordes
Until nature’s handsome sprouts remind me life is beautiful, always
The trumpet vine grows hideous and spiny, roots reaching deep
Settles in its site and survives all assaults man-made
For a blink during the year its vermillion nectar tubes take flower
The hummingbirds find love outside my window in their bloom
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 10:16 PM UTC
Ben Bernanke's hanky panky and
Quantitative Easing is so displeasing
A collapsing economy where no one can afford a meal
Sparks a revolution, with the citizens at the wheel.
And when all is over and said and done,
A new Polis will arise, where all is for none.
But the question still remains:
Are you still in bed with your chains?
Or are you awake with a gun:
A strong militia of and for One?
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 1:19 PM UTC
We yelled and staggered on
We stumbled and many fell
Detained in the perplexity
No respite as danger pursued
The ordeal ensued when
In the midst of clout struggle
The insurgents took up weaponry
Determined to surmount a dictator
That morning bewilderment originated
Helter-skelter we escaped for safety
Sad enough bullets out ran some
Especially as cross fires existed
We saw our Kinsmen reach for the ground
As though caught only with fatigue
But bullets indeed penetrated some
They lay motionless as we lurched on
Struggling to God knows where,
We knew not our course
No worst thing existed for us
Like the cross fires we were trapped in.
One by one we began to die that day
Randomly death swallowed us up,
While power mongers persisted
Fired projectiles missed targets for us.
We ran frantically in seek for safety
Recognizing us as restless victims,
The insurgents mercilessly began to
Extinct us with great delight
‘No one is surviving the assault
What do I do?’ I pondered hastily
‘Shall we all face our demise this way?
No, I’ll live’ I determined
Kinsmen had long fallen to rise no more
This fact gave me impetus to survive
To live and tell the story of the cross fires
History of the fallen most be told to posterity
Inspiration came to me at once
I unyieldingly fell down as one lifeless
Spilled, oozing blood entwined me
The killers shoot till no one stood
Everyone lay motionless in a stack
I lived however not too sure yet
The cross fires persisted for long
That at one point I envied my kinsmen
Finally, calm was reluctantly returning
The government militia advanced
The insurgents had not a choice
But to retreat in dread of superior artillery
We had unfortunately advanced towards
The insurgents that we became the target
Of the artillery that was meant to shield us
Blames on the wrong tactics by the militia
Abounded as calm was retained in days
But I had a story to tell of the cross fires.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
Golden child,
Lion boy;
Tell me what it’s like to conquer.
Fearless child,
Broken boy;
Tell me what it’s like to burn.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 2:04 AM UTC
Passing is paranoia
Like oiled up blonde blue eyed women
On the slave for sale stage
Next to dark skinned slaves in the same chains
From the clamor in the audience
White women
Yelling
Proclaiming
Protesting
“Are we selling ourselves now?!”
Passing is paranoia
I don’t know who knows I’m not white
I do not like white people behind my back
Where I cannot see them
I keep my back against the wall
Passing is dangerous
Confidently passing
Will get you beaten and killed in a dark place
White uniformed militia will say you did something you didn’t
White women will force themselves on you and say you did
Passing is ****
Until her white parents find out
Then passing is loneliness
Passing is plotting
Them against you
Anticipation
Edginess
Tension
Passing is in limbo
An interval of genocide
A frantic meditation on what it is to be human
Passing is revolution
Passing is waiting for the perfect moment of revenge
Passing is vengeance
Passing is the blackest you will ever meet
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
Sedition is not just patina-ed oil paintings
mobs not just lithographs
treason not mere fading daguerreotypes
Sedition is chat rooms and airwaves of mistruth and its taintin-gs
mobs are our friends and neighbors turned bands of riff-raffs
treason, the weaponization of dog whistles and stereotypes
Sedition is here now
mobs are the so-called militia of the present
treason is happening now
It will be one for history books now
be present and accounted for
be the United States of America, treading down snakes
Jan 10, 2021
Jan 10, 2021 at 9:09 PM UTC
I knew him because he was there...sometimes
in the morning drinking one of his sixteen cups
of coffee before I would go to school.
I knew him cause we would go camping sometimes
and the four of us and our dog would be in the station
wagon towing a tent trailer, to be set up and taken down.
I knew he was there sometimes when I joined cadets and
then the militia and...sometimes after I joined the CAF,
and less when I began to have a family.
I knew where he was when we were home... sometimes,
as he was cleaning his rifles or handguns, making beer
in the wine room, carving or tinkering with something.
I knew he was there...sometimes he and mom would
argue and their voices would be raised and we could
hear them through the floor, as they struggled with
reason.
I knew he was there...sometimes he would smoke
when he drank more than he should so I would
drive us home with my new licence, before that
he would do the driving.
I knew he was there in the hospital...sometimes he
would have seizures then the aneurysm that did not
take him but made him less able to be a father
and grandfather to our children.
I knew he was no longer there over twenty years
of a slow spiral down, to where the cold, cold
lay waiting...sometimes sooner for some and
later for others.
As he lay on the bed in the care home he was
no longer there, cold to the touch, heart stopped
struggle quit,... sometimes I miss him, sometimes
I am not missing him, he was not the kindest,
and I made him my only dad... sometimes I
wonder if that was, my mistake.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 1:34 AM UTC
the immersion in media
i feel weaponized
part of an inhuman condition
a heated communal militia head space
gilded with fear but splintered of opinions
sperming in a holding pattern
like fish in a overpopulated aquarium
we're stunning ourselves on the sides
batting at it to for an expansion
frenzy of communication
but other life continues
seemingly untainted
indifferent
certainly
see !
the
birds
aviate
and i feel
there is reassurance
the worlds life will outlast us
what's the worst that we could do ?
we'll not be taking it to our grave ;
a pharaoh tombed with ornamental company
Aug 25, 2022
Aug 25, 2022 at 12:28 PM UTC
Popping out from slumberous state,
Little buds, you come to life.
Fight, fist, fend the odds,
You’re different; you survive.
Combative, commanding, cruel,
Your army, every restraint exceeds,
As it marches on, devouring
The very platter on which it feeds.
Slithering, slipping stealthily,
Deadly tentacles spare no bone, sinew.
Boundaries are blurred; your territory expands,
Your militia continues to exponentially grow.
And soon, your red flags of victory-
Those flags of death, demise and doom
Are planted everywhere; each bit
Of terrain you’ve invaded and consumed.
There you sit, content, in the middle of all the gloom,
Immortal, indestructible, infinite.
With power of the magnitude you possess,
There’s no force that can give you a fight.
And when flies of decay begin to hover over
Your kingdom, you smile, flexing your pincers.
Thriving on the depressing glow of the setting sun,
You- the kark, the crab, the cancer.
(to the malady that ate my Grandmother away)
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 11:02 AM UTC